Turned beneath my feet are the sounds of last weeks conversations, last weeks thought's, last nights lust.
Thus I never have always wanted to but Thus I pushed my emotions to the waste basket and crawled to the corners of my mind.
Thus I throw up from the idea of killing myself, from the idea of losing the income I've worked to never gain.
Emotionally I exit the thoughts I've begun to master, the hidden complex to my complexion, the inner compound to my dog.
Thus I crawl, thus I complain, thus I paint myself as a new picture.
I paint with the same old brush on new pages.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem